


The Makings of Virtuoso

by excepttemptation



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, of course bella plays the violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:50:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excepttemptation/pseuds/excepttemptation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every young woman of breeding required some foray into artistic expression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Makings of a Virtuoso

Bellatrix Black could not draw. She could not paint. She flat out refused to try singing. She did not sew or write poetry or bake. Such social baubles were necessary, however, in her mother's eyes. Narcissa wanted to paint. Andromeda, for some completely incomprehensible reason, longed to pursue culinary expertise. Both endeavors seemed trivial to Bellatrix, who could do without pastel studies of blooming flowers and had no desire to do a job relegated to house elves. But still, Druella Black was convinced that all women of breeding needed superfluous talent with which to adorn themselves.

It was when her father took her, aged nine, to see the Gorodok Baroque Orchestra that she found her love of music-- strong, swelling, overwhelming music that reverberated for days, the memory of it throbbing longingly in one's ears. You could feel such music. You could breathe it. It could saturate your soul.

Druella Black was delighted. They went through three tutors in a month. Bellatrix was bored out of her mind by the piano. It stood in the middle of a room that was always filled with too-bright light, a dead, lifeless thing that was as tedious as it was immovable. With an elbow plunked on a row of black and white, her right hand droned through shrill scales. The second time Bella's annoyance sent her fingers crashing through shattering ivory her mother decided perhaps a different instrument.

It was her father who placed the first violin in her hands. The first pull of bow on string was a long awaited exhale. Her mother's voice was washed away by it. The grating, hollow cacophony of dresses and ribbons and insignificant drivel overshadowed by it. Strings cut against her fingertips. She could feel it again - the hope and pining and excitement at the first encounter with hungry, passionate, jittering staccato that bled out into a foreboding, sensual slur.

Her mother bemoaned that she never played anything light or pleasant. She wanted merry concertos of summer flowers and quiet evenings. She called Bellatrix's favourite pieces indecent, unable to perceive the technical skill they required; blinded by the way her eldest daughter's lips were barely parted and perfect posture was corrupted by a serpentine slide of the spine.

But her father understood. He was proud of her. She could feel it.


	2. Dynamics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**da niente:** from nothing; out of silence_  
>  It begins so slowly, growing so gradually that it becomes impossible to tell when the sound properly began. Low, deep sounds stretch out. Imperceptibly it begins, full measures passing before the sound registers in the conscious mind.
> 
> The faintest brush of unease. Perhaps the room seems too dark. The wand placed on the table only moments ago is no longer there. Something is not quite right.

_**da niente:** from nothing; out of silence_  
It begins so slowly, growing so gradually that it becomes impossible to tell when the sound properly began. Low, deep sounds stretch out. Imperceptibly it begins, full measures passing before the sound registers in the conscious mind.

The faintest brush of unease. Perhaps the room seems too dark. The wand placed on the table only moments ago is no longer there. Something is not quite right.

 

_**sotto voce:** soft, subtle_  
It evolves. Notes drop to a hush, discernible now. Distinct, but the overtones are muted. The threshold is set. Something is coming. The first flush teases at it, heralds its imminent arrival.

Something is wrong. Looming. Pricking at fingertips and the back of the neck. Concern shifts vaguely into fear too ambiguous to pin down, to rationalize away.

 

_**crescendo:** becoming louder_  
Her favorite part. The unfurl, rise, the swell, the lifting tide that fills every inch of the body. That mounting, upward motion promising more and more and more in an arch of kinetic energy.

She is there. If escape were at one point possible, the hope of it is drowned out. Once aware of the source of this fear, there is no getting free. There is only panic, an age-old ache to flee that will find no satisfaction.

 

_**in rilievo:** in relief; indicates that a particular instrument or part is to play louder than the others so as to stand out over the ensemble_  
The aural stage is set, all that has come before serving to provide context for the centerpiece.

Pain. It is all pain, only pain and rancid terror. And something breaking.

 

_**diminuendo:** becoming softer_  
Just as broad, just as rich, just as complex. Only volume is diminished. The pinnacle of vigor and passion is passed. A rolling descent eases the loss.

They thrash, but strength is leaving the limbs. Fleeing blood carries away strength and focus. The clutch and bite of fingers gentler, almost sleepy. What was once a scream is now hoarse and faltering.

 

_**calando:** becoming smaller_  
The pull of the bow is shorter now, but slower still. The sound condenses around the mind, winding around it, sheathing it snugly.

Only timid attempts at struggle. As though the will to move, to fight recedes deeper and deeper beneath the skin. They shrink into themselves. Just a gurgling whimper now.

 

_**al niente:** to nothing; fade to silence_  
Only in silence could a force of magnitude resonate. There had to be silence to perceive an echo. Silence created a context, a border, a punctuation for beginning and end. The sounds themselves died away, leaving only the breathless pause where her mind could perceive a piece in its entirety. Only in the silence that followed was a piece complete.


End file.
